


all of my goodness is going with you now

by Kangoo



Series: Front toward enemy [17]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Petra dies (sorry)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 17:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20029663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: Petra gets there first





	all of my goodness is going with you now

**Author's Note:**

> honey i fridged petra 
> 
> title from hozier's "shrike"

"You'd have been friends, I think," Cayde says once they're a few drinks in, the night dark and fuzzy enough he can pretend he's drunker than he really is and it won't feel like too much of a lie.

Razel tilts his head like a curious bird, watching Cayde through his lashes. He doesn't ask who Cayde's talking about. He knows. How could he not? And he hasn't dared to say her name since–

Well. Since.

"She has-" his voice stutters, glitches out like he has a faulty wiring or twenty in his voice box. He pushes through, forces the past tense through his clenched teeth. "-had an area of damage, ya know? You could have bonded over explosives and property damage."

Razel quirks a smile. There's an uncharacteristic melancholy to him, a dimness to his blazing eyes. He's fiddling with the tab of his can of shitty cherry flavored beer, not drinking any of it while Cayde slams back shot after shot like his life depends on it.

Trying to outrun his own hardware, drinking alcohol faster than it can process it. But shit, he couldn't even outrun Petra, let alone a machine older than his consciousness and hell-bent on keeping him sober.

"Sounds like a pretty cool person," Razel says, voice unusually softer, careful the way he never bothers to be.

He's about as subtle as a hammer in the face – the King of Club, he called him back when the only thing he knew about Razel was his bluntness and his world-saving habit.

(Now he's more of a joker, to slip out of your sleeve and slap on top of the deck when you're out of ideas. A trump card or a distraction, depending on the kind of game you're playing.)

And sometimes a hammer is exactly what you need to get out of a funk. But now he's looking at Cayde like he's sometime precious and fragile, an antique clockwork watch rather than a war machine. The kind you take apart and pull back together with a magnifying glass and tiny instruments, delicate work like Razel's never been able to do.

Thing is: Cayde's pretty sure he's right about that. But it was way more comfortable to feel like a nail.

Razel's given him an opening, he realizes, slow on the uptake from more than alcohol. Grief sticks to his mind like molasses, makes his mind foggy and his trigger finger trigger-happy. A dangerous combination. That's why he's here, in the Tower, rather than out there, running after Uldren. Putting a bullet in his head like he should have done years ago.

"She was," he says, because it would be a disservice to her memory to not talk her up to people. Even if it hurts. Especially because it hurts. That's how you know it's worth doing. "Coolest person I know. Ikora doesn't count." He pauses, takes a sip, soldiers on. "Loyal. Dedicated. Bit of a show-off, but it's not like there wasn't anything to show. Hell of a shot, and terrific with a knife. Sharp as a tack and funny as hell." 

"You loved her." It's not a question.

"Like a sister," he agrees, and thinks about another sibling figure he lost because of his own stupid pride. The cloak weighs heavy on his shoulders. If only he'd been faster, if only he'd taken it more seriously, if only he'd confirmed the kill–

If, if, if. All strung together like a beads bracelet spelling _should•have•done•better_.

"Cayde?"

He shrugs, plasters a smile on his face like a fresh coat of paint. Good as new. "I mean, we're both blue, beautiful and covered in knives. If that's not family resemblance-"

"Don't do that."

He freezes, taken aback by Razel's tone. "Do what?"

Razel gestures toward him, brows drawn in helpless frustration. "Blaming yourself. Hiding behind jokes because you don't want to show vulnerability."

At that Cayde can't help but make a derisive noise, more directed at himself than Razel. "_Of course_ I'm blaming myself. I could have saved her, and I-" _wasn't fast enough, smart enough, a good enough shot, didn't see it coming, didn't take it seriously, didn't save her._ "It should have been me, down there. I can't forget that. I can't- turn it off just like that."

He says it the wrong way, with that tone he uses when he's trying to get a complex concept through that thick skull of his. Patronizing. Thoughtless. And Razel replies in kind, hackles rising, eyes burning into Cayde's neck when he refuses to look at Razel as he says, "Yes you can."

Cayde turns around brusquely, absurdly hurt by the words. Like it's that simple, like his grief means nothing–

To Razel, maybe it does.

He grasps for a reply and finds it in that mean little part of himself, the darkest corner of his heart, Cayde 1 to 5 bleeding through like bloodstains on cloth. He lashes out, cruel without meaning to be, desperate to hurt Razel like he's hurting–

"How would you know?" He snaps. "You've never lost anyone before."

Razel draws back, wincing as if physically hit, but the wounded look in his bright bright eyes dissipate quickly. It's low, and petty, and cruel. Razel lost plenty of people, in the Red War and before, though not close friends. Not yet. But he lost them, and he grieved them, friends and acquaintances and unknown fellow Guardians. He was there right alongside Cayde, a shovel in hand and dirt under his fingernails, digging graves for the fallen. 

But it's weak, too, because Razel isn't Cayde. He doesn't wallow, doesn't wake up crying out, begging forgiveness from a man decades dead. He moves on, recklessly, stubbornly, refuses to be beaten down.

Cayde aimed for the mean little part of _Razel's_ psyche, the dark spot that whispers _if, if, if_ endlessly. 

_If you took better care of people, if you were a better Guardians, if you had any true friend-_

(You wouldn't lose anyone, you'd care more about losing anyone, why don't you _care_-)

But Razel cares. He cares so much, loudly, louder than the mean voice inside. He holds grudges like life debts and regrets like promises. Cayde bears loss like manacles and he treats it like training weights, like another reason to keep fighting. Because there is always more to lose.

The dark part of his mind whispers _why you and not someone stronger? What did you do to deserve any of this?_ and he replies, _because I _am_ strong. I won't fail._

And he keeps his word.

"And what do you think would have happened, if you'd been in her place?"

Cayde draws short, his comeback stolen from his mouth before he can put it into sound.

"I'd have survived," he replies, though it's halfhearted. He saw the aftermath of the fight, short as it was. He's a good shot, but he's not a single-handedly-destroy-a-small-army good. Ammo runs out, eventually, and he only keeps the one gun on him.

Razel knows that, too. "You wouldn't have," he says, not unkindly. "You'd have lasted longer than her, sure, but-" His mouth thins, unease clear on his face. "You'd die, eventually. Just like she did."

"Well maybe I should have!"

The outburst surprises both of them, most of all because Cayde finds that he believes it. 

"It's my fault she's dead. It should have been me," he repeats.

There's a part of him, not the deep dark one, another almost smothered by grief and alcohol that protests at the thought.

Something twists in Razel's face, shock turning to anger. "Fuck no," he says and then, for emphasis, "_Fuck_ no!"

Eloquently put and definitively efficient. Cayde blinks, briefly distracted from the bitter taste on his tongue, waiting– for what he's not sure.

"I'm sorry Petra is dead," Razel says, "And I'm sorry you have to go through this. I'm sorry you have to hurt. But I'm not sorry you're alive. You're my best friend and I love you and I don't know what I'd do, if you were gone. I'm not sorry."

"That's... selfish."

"Then fine. I'm selfish. But I'm not sorry for that, either, because you're only saying that because you're out of arguments, which means I'm right."

That's the most sensible, emotionally aware thing he's ever heard Razel say. He looks at him in amazement, huffs a laugh, asks, "When did you get so smart?" 

"I didn't, I just know you well." Razel looks away, mouth twisting in a slight frown. "You're not you when you're sad."

Cayde sighs, shoulders falling as all the fight goes out of him at once, and he slumps against Razel. He's solid under him, alive, present. Stalwart.

A knight in shining armor, only a dragon short of the real deal.

"I'm sorry."

Razel wraps his arm around Cayde's shoulder and presses his cheek against the top of his head. "Don't be. You're allowed to be sad. I would be, too."

"I'd do the same, if you were sad," Cayde promises.

"Yell at me until I get my head out of my ass?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks." Then, softer, to himself, "I wish someone had done that with Uldren."

"We can always do it, if you want."

"Before or after you put a bullet in his head and both his kneecaps?"

"Kneecaps first, or he won't feel it. And I'm great at multitasking. I can shoot _and _yell at him."

But Cayde has to reluctantly agree. Things would have gone better if Uldren had had a Razel to keep rotten thoughts from rattling for too long in that pretty head of his.


End file.
